Marrying Medicine

Dr. Mita Bannerjee inherited Miranda Amorelli on Friday morning. Miranda had been on a medical ward for 4 days. She was not responding to antibiotics. Nobody knew what was wrong, including Dr. Bannerjee, the new consultant in infectious diseases.

“I hate medicine,” Dr. Bannerjee said to her husband that night.

“What's wrong, sweetie?”

She explained about Miranda Amorelli. But he couldn't understand the details. He wasn't a physician.

“Maybe I should just quit. Just be a housewife.” But she knew she couldn't. Julian did not earn very much at Willamette's small private college. They depended on her earnings, or, rather, the promise of earnings to come. So far, overhead, uncompensated patients, and Medicare rejections had prevented her from collecting very much.

“Don't worry about it,” Julian said. “You're not on for the weekend. Let the call guy take care of it.”

That was easy for him to say. He wasn't responsible for Miranda Amorelli, who was one of those unlovable patients who seemed to be coming through the ER with more frequency these days. Miranda was a heroin addict. She was HIV positive. She had no useful veins. She was a noncompliant diabetic. She was belligerent and abusive. She had no family. Nobody cared whether she lived or died.

So, Dr. Bannerjee asked herself, why should she care? Especially since she and Julian had the long weekend off and were treating themselves to an expensive mini-vacation, skiing over at Bend. She didn't even know this fat woman patient who had been thrust upon her. She wondered if the transfer to her service would have been so urgent had it been Monday instead of Friday.

Nevertheless, Dr. Bannerjee lay sleepless all night beside her husband, worrying about her new patient. Two hundred and ninety pounds, demanding, noncompliant, and foul-mouthed to boot. …